


The Smile

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, eighth year, ron is so done with this shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 17:51:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11340408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: Harry smiles at Malfoy, Malfoy smiles back, and Ron is surely rolling his eyes in the background somewhere.





	The Smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jade presley](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=jade+presley).



> Based off of [this](https://antisocialpenguintalks.tumblr.com/post/162092243968/headcanon) head canon on tumblr.
> 
> All characters belong to JK Rowling and associated publishers.
> 
> Completely unbetaed, so forgive any mistakes.

Harry isn’t sure why he does it, the first time—mostly out of a desire to be perverse, really; Merlin knows that he’s never smiled at Malfoy before. Never had a reason to, and still doesn’t. But when Malfoy glances up at him from across the great hall with that standard, boring sneer across his face, Harry does the most annoying think he can think of: he smiles back.

For some reason, it comes out feeling genuine. It’s small, the curve of his lips feels like a relief after the strain of scowling. What he doesn’t expect is the way Malfoy’s eyes widen, or the way his whole body jerks taut at seeing it. His mouth opens, and he lets his jaw dangle for a moment, and it’s so unguarded, so _un-Malfoy_ that it startles Harry into a laugh, which breaks free from his throat as though it won’t be contained—as if it’s been waiting for the right moment to present itself. 

The following day, Harry can’t resist seeing if he’ll get the same reaction—or, to be honest, if that reaction will evoke the same laughter that felt so good. He tries to not seem as though he’s staring throughout lunch—though honestly no one seems to notice anything unusual, anyway, for some reason. By the time Malfoy finally looks his way, Harry has a ready smile for him.

Malfoy rolls his eyes and glares at him, but his scowl twists oddly, becoming a smirk that flicks up around the corners. His chin squares off a little, and Harry realises with something that feels like pleasure that Malfoy is trying not to smile back. He doesn’t laugh, but the same warm feeling floods his chest, and his grin grows so large he feels faintly embarrassed by it.

It becomes this little game they play. Harry doesn’t understand it—doesn’t try, really, because it’s so fucking strange that he has so much exchanging smiles with Malfoy across the hall, smiles that slowly segue into Malfoy flaring his nostrils and grimacing to the side, and Harry squinching his eyes shut and sticking out his tongue. It’s so fucking strange that he forgets that it _is_ by the time they’re throwing insults at each other while their friends stare with barely concealed horror and not a small bit of fascination.

“What?” Harry asks defensively, when Ron starts to point out. “It’s a bit of fun. Better than trying to kill each other.”

Which is so true. It’s this great weight off of Harry’s chest every time they pass in the hall and try to top the other’s bizarrely twisted face—he feels free from that old heaviness and light; lighter than air. Even when Malfoy yells out, _“Nice hair, Potter, which breed of bird are you nesting in it this time?”_ and Harry yells back, _“I dunno, Malfoy, but their beaks are really pointy; maybe you’re related!”_ They both dissolve into laughter, so what’s so weird about it?

And Harry forgets, completely, to guard himself. On the day that Malfoy arches a brow and purses his lips dramatically, Harry snorts and calls out, “If you want to kiss me so badly, Malfoy, you can just ask!” Malfoy colours, but readily quips, “You wish, Potter—you wouldn’t be able to take it.” And Harry unthinkingly returns, “I’ve had a lot of practice enduring the worst of the worst, Malfoy, though I appreciate the warning of how bad it would be.” Malfoy looks unsure, for a moment, whether he should smile or frown, but the smile wins and Harry sits back, flustered by the grudging— _affection_ in it. 

And that _does_ feel strange, being able to recognise it for what it is. And weirder still, wanting to—

Ron mutters, “Sweet bloody Merlin’s mum, Harry,” next to him, and Harry breaks Malfoy’s gaze to turn to him.

“What?”

Ron gives him a look like he’s daft and tucks back into his food, but the next day—when Harry is entirely too wrapped up in his thoughts—he sits down on his bed and stares at Harry for entirely too long before saying, “You haven’t been out in a while.”

“We went out last weekend,” Harry objects, fiddling with the Snitch hovering above his head. 

“Not us—you. Not since Ginny and the whole—the gay thing.”

Harry snickers, curling the Snitch in his palm and rolling over on his bed to look at Ron, who is chewing on his lower lip. “Haven’t found anyone to go out with.”

“I did,” Ron blurts. “I found you someone.”

Groaning, Harry falls onto his back again and throws his forearm over his eyes. “I don’t want a fix up, Ron. Did Hermione—”

Ron huffs a little and Harry peeks out at him; he looks irritated. “You’re distracted. Just go out with the guy. Hermione thinks you’d like him too.”

There’s not a single part of Harry that wants to go, because it’s actually really hard to have your mind on _other matters_ that you are _actively_ trying to avoid thinking about, but finally he sighs. “What’s his name?”

“He’s waiting at the Three Broomsticks,” Ron says on an exhale.

“What, _now?_ ” Harry glares at him, then sits up. “You didn’t even know if I’d agree!”

“Harry.” Ron says it flatly, like he’s tired. “Just go.”

And Harry doesn’t really know how to respond to the look on Ron’s face, so he does—though rebelliously doesn’t change out of his dirty t-shirt and jeans, to make a point (though he wonders on the way what kind—that he smells bad? That he hasn’t showered yet? It’s not the mystery-bloke’s fault that Ron’s an arse.)

He gets to the Three Broomsticks and looks around curiously. He doesn’t feel nervous, or worried, or strange—though he’s not interested, whoever Ron and Hermione picked are bound to be decent enough, and he can have a drink and go. 

The bar is nearly empty; there are a couple of witches sitting at the bar, and three older wizards sharing a table together. But then Harry sees—

He sees a bright lock of hair flash out at movement from the corner booth. Swallowing hard, he heads over, feeling a renewed flash of regret for the grass stains on his knees smudge of mud on his shirt. 

He pulls to a halt at Malfoy’s side and stuffs his hand into his pockets. “You’re my date?”

Malfoy’s mouth pulls down unpleasantly as he looks into his drink, and Harry misses his smile. “Pansy forced me here, s don’t start thinking this was my idea, Potter.”

Harry clears his throat. “Wasn’t mine, either.” He takes a deep breath. “But I—”

“You what?” Malfoy says on a rush, his head coming up fast. 

Harry shrugs. Attempts a grin. “I guess I’m glad we’re both here.”

Malfoy’s cheekbone rounds the way Harry’s noticed it does when he’s refusing to let the corners of his mouth curl up. Something in Harry’s stomach flutters as Malfoy scoots closer to the wall and gestures. “Have a seat.”

Harry slides in next to him, not quite sure why Malfoy offered him the side seat instead of the one across the table, but then Malfoy mutters, “Kissing me is _not_ the worst of the worst, you know. I’m a good kisser.”

Feeling his face heat, Harry gulps in a great lungful of air. “I didn’t— I’ve been trying not to— Let me be the judge of that.”

Malfoy bites his lip, but his mouth his bracketed in those crinkles that Harry’s observed so often in the last several weeks. Without warning he turns, and then his mouth is moving, softly, over Harry’s own. Harry sucks in a surprised breath and lets his lashes drift closed; he opens his mouth to the shy, slick touch of Malfoy’s tongue, and kisses him back.

It feels like riding a broom does; exhilarating, like the air on his face as he swoops through it effortlessly. His hand grips Malfoy’s thigh under the table, just for something to hold on to.

After a minute, Malfoy pulls away. His face is flushed and his eyes are bright. He takes a swallow of his drink. “Well?”

It takes Harry a moment, but he finally finds his voice. “Maybe not the worst of the worst,” he concedes, watching Malfoy carefully. “And at least I didn’t have to look at your face that way.”

Malfoy snorts, surprised, tension bleeding from his expression. He shoves at Harry’s elbow, hiding a smile. “Fuck off.”

“We could try again,” Harry offers mischievously. “Until you’re only moderately horrible.”

“If it was so awful, why are you still clinging to my leg?” Malfoy asks drily.

Harry doesn’t remove his hand. “Maybe even until you’re—sort of good at it. I mean, it’ll obviously take a while.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“Shut up, Potter,” Malfoy says, sounding fond. “Just shut up, and order a drink.”

So Harry does.

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse this, I'm very tired and saw the head canon and started typing. lolol. But comments and kudos are lovely, if you feel like leaving any. :)
> 
> Also, I'm on [tumblr](https://bixgirl1.tumblr.com/) so come see me over there, too! *waves*


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